


Predisposed

by slamncram



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Worship, Domestic Bliss, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Flustered Crowley (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, Post-Canon, Smut, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 16:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20799740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slamncram/pseuds/slamncram
Summary: Six thousand years wasn't enough to prepare Aziraphale for the beauty of this realization. That was a little bit of a setback, certainly, but he was willing to make the most of it.





	Predisposed

Six thousand years of familiarity could prepare one for a lot, and yet, not for enough.

Aziraphale should have expected as much. In all his years, he had been surprised by many things. The resiliency of humanity again the odds and the wiles of the Almighty. The cruelty of humanity when given the slightest push. The beauty in a sunrise on his 4674th morning.

There wasn’t much that escaped his notice, much less that truly surprised him. That much was for certain.

But, it seemed the last week or so had brought more than a few surprises and had shed bright, clear daylight on at least one thing.

That one thing, it turned out, had been right under his nose for the better part of a decent handful of millenia.

Crowley.

It wasn’t that the demon had himself escaped Aziraphale’s notice. Far from it. Over the centuries, Crowley, more than most anything else, had captured his attention. From Eden, to Paris, to an airbase in Tadfield; Crowley had caught and held the angel’s attention without much hardship. He showed up, with all his swagger and sass, and all of Aziraphale’s consciousness was caught. It was almost shameful.

If Aziraphale was being honest, and he knew he should be, it _was_ shameful.

For an angel to be so caught up by a demon? Aziraphale had shuddered to think, sometimes, of how the others would look at him if they knew how far his transgressions went. The Agreement. Their friendship. More.

Oh, so much more, and Aziraphale hadn’t seen it. Not in Crowley, even though he’d all but spelled it out for him. The demon had given him signs, again and again. In Paris, in London under a bomb-riddled sky, on the street outside his shop.

The thing was, the angel hadn’t seen it in himself, either.

Aziraphale had prided himself on knowing who he was, and somehow the depth of this was a surprise to him, a new revelation, as much as it had been in Crowley.

Crowley...

A demon. His natural enemy. Hereditary rival. The opposition.

The object of all of his attention, right now, as he always was when he made his slippery self known.

The difference now was that it was positively _laced_, absolutely_ riddled_, with affection.

“If I’m not a bit mistaken, you’re preening.” Aziraphale murmured, pausing in laying that affection all over Crowley, his lips brushing against his temple. Feeling the other stiffen under him, he rushed to add, “it isn’t a bad thing! Rather the opposite, in fact.”

They had been spread out here for such a long while, Aziraphale suspected he’d lost track of time. He didn’t need sleep, no, and neither did Crowley, but there was something to be said for a sumptuously comfortable bed. He knew that Crowley agreed; in fact, this bed, Aziraphale may be pressed to admit, had been something he’d brought around after listening to Crowley hiss the praises of a decent nap in a nice bed such as this one.

It hadn’t gotten much use, certainly nothing that he’d call ‘traffic’ since it had been installed, the soft sheets and thick duvet hardly disturbed, not a pillow moved out of place.

Not until this week, that was. This week had been when Aziraphale had finally been able to admire how perfectly Crowley fit in the space by everything on the bed being disturbed.

Now, under him, Crowley shifted his shoulders, narrowed his striking eyes. Aziraphale had to laugh, settling with his hands crossed under his chin, over Crowley’s chest.

“I like it. I feel like I’ve been deprived of something beautiful. Up until now, that is.”

“I wasn’t preening,” Crowley started, clearly gearing up for a defensive tirade. “Can I be blamed? You’ve spent the better part of – of bloody hours – _hours_, angel – just – just...”

Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting with it.

“Being absolutely infuriating!” Crowley finished.

“Kissing you.” Aziraphale corrected with a quiet laugh. Lifting his chin, he unfolded his hands and pressed yet another of those apparently _infuriating_ kisses over the place where Crowley would have a heart if he needed one. “Every glorious inch. You can’t blame me, my dear.”

Crowley snorted. Aziraphale knew better than to question if the colour in his cheeks was from his own affections or from the demon’s frustration. Either would be a fine answer, he thought.

At that thought, he was reminded that Crowley was right about him.

He was, truly, a little bit of a bastard.

“And why’s that?”

Aziraphale pressed another kiss further down Crowley’s chest. Then another below it.

“I’m an angel.”

Another kiss to Crowley’s navel.

“I’m predisposed to worship.”

Crowley made a sound, something like a groan, that could have been exasperation with Aziraphale and his terrible joke.

Aziraphale liked to think that it had more to do, however, with the places he was laying his kisses now.

These past weeks had been full of surprises. Some of them world-shattering, some of them world-changing.

The revelation that he, Aziraphale, an angel, was irrevocably in love with the demon Crowley had been one. The realization that Crowley had been trying to tell him that love was absolutely a two-way street for centuries had been another.

Yet another was the discovery of the way Crowley slowly went to pieces under the slightest attentions. The simplest intimacy. Under _this_.

With Aziraphale blaspheming so beautifully by worshipping _him_.

Crowley fell apart with his hands in Aziraphale’s hair and Aziraphale’s name on his normally sharp tongue like a prayer, the sort of thing the angel _knew_ he hadn’t done for such a long, long time.

The demon had always been full of surprises. Fully aware, now, Aziraphale was determined to find out just how many more his cunning beloved had been hiding for all those years.

And if it took hours, day, weeks?

So be it.

Crowley’s complaints, Aziraphale thought, smiling up at him while the other caught unnecessary breath, didn’t seem to have much conviction behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Come yell at me about these ineffable idiots, this fic, and other assorted nonsense on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/slamncram)!


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